| To drift with every passion till my soul | |
| Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play, | |
| Is it for this that I have given away | |
| Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?— | |
| Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll |
|
| Scrawled over on some boyish holiday | |
| With idle songs for pipe and virelay | |
| Which do but mar the secret of the whole. | |
| Surely there was a time I might have trod | |
| The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance |
|
| Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: | |
| Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod | |
| I did but touch the honey of romance— | |
And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?
Oscar Wilde
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